Maximum Ride: The One Who Lied
by sleepy barn owl
Summary: UNDETERMINED HIATUS. Max's dream school is everything she ever wanted. But she'll never get into it - unless she's a boy. A boy with money. (And her family is totally dysfunctional.) So what's the most logical thing to do? Ummm… obviously, disguise herself. As a guy. And what happens when she (as a boy!) falls in love with her classmate?
1. Chapter 1: Preview

_**MAXIMUM POV:**_

According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, (something I'm learning about in General Sciences) in order for someone to learn – at school, for example –, said someone has necessities. They need safety, for example. They need a roof over their head and food every day. They need a sense of belonging, and sufficient quantities of self-esteem.

They need a safe shelter.

They need to be fed.

They need to be loved.

And they need to love _themselves._

Once those requirements are met, they can truly absorb their studies and understand what's in front of them. They can be schooled properly.

Unfortunately, some educational facilities add to their own hierarchy. They make students fit within guidelines. They're enclosed and far-off.

The only school I've ever wanted to attend is one of those schools.

In order to attend West-Carr Academy, you must meet their requirements.

You must be a man.

A natural-born, biological, real male. A man.

* * *

 ** _FLASHBACK_**

 _A mass of my classmates received their acceptance letters at the end of junior high. My insane jealousy chewed through the pit of my stomach as they read the gold-leaf letters and traced embossed logos. They were all honored in high society, or they were achieved scholars. I was neither. I was a female accident with a drunk for a father. It was my dream to learn in an art school, though._

 _I'd read the requirements over and over again, in the pamphlets, on library computers, in vain hope that they would change eventually._

 _'West-Carr is a mainly male-oriented arts and literature academy… During enrollment, lottery, and dormitory selection, parental income, student grades, and social status is taken into consideration; however, West-Carr is not biased against personal lifestyle. See page 23 of the enrollment document for payment options and general requirements...'_

 _They never changed; the requirements; I mean. Of course, the only things I was ever any good at were the arts and aspects of literature. But I would never get into the Academy._

* * *

I live in the very worst part of the city, probably illegally, in a whore's apartment. I've mentioned that my father is a drunk: a violent, broke, and intoxicated father, with no source of income. My life is as far as it can get from the Requirements, not to mention my lack of… male bits and a boy's overly crude sense of humor.

The only reason I ever come home at night is because I can't survive on the streets. I've got no allies and no hope on the desolate sidewalk. At least here I've got a couch to sleep on, even if said couch explodes with dirt and dust like a puffball fungi every time you touch it.

Ah, the couch. It's the cleanest thing in this house, despite its puffball-like qualities. No one's allowed to fuck on it, and no one's allowed to do drugs on it. And it's comfy as hell.

I burrow into it and try to steal back the last tendrils of night before school.

* * *

I'm rudely awoken at 6:00 AM, which is approximately an hour before I usually rise from the dead. I glance around at the dimly lit room, and narrow my eyes at the silhouette that stands in my only mother figure's doorway. There's a crinkling sound, then the noise of something being folded into one's pocket. I reach between the cushions of the couch, right by my side –

"You one of 'em?" asks a hoarse voice. Male.

I sit up, my eyes catch his –

"You a young one, girlie," he says, shaking his head. "You too young to be fuckin' up yo' life like dis. You gotta job? Need a bit?"

Disgust curls in my stomach. _No, no – he thinks I'm one of them –_ I'll _never_ be one of _them;_ never waste my life as a prostitute in the dirtiest apartments of the city.

I shake my head furiously, biting down bile at the sight of this toothless man in front of me, half rotting, like a corpse. I don't want to see what lies behind his pants, which are unzipped and lay dangerously low on his hips. I don't want to think about the money he probably left my… 'mother', and perhaps a tip for the good fuck.

"No," I say, quietly. "No. No." Louder still: "No!"

I'm panicking now.

"Whoa, girlie," the man says, raising his hands above his head and backing away. "Ain't comin' here to get in no crazy house. Just want the women."

"I'm not a whore like the rest of them!" I cry.

"Didn't say you were! Didn't…fuckin'… say… nothin' – _bitch_!" And before I can properly clarify myself, he's gone, out of the door and gone.

And I _know_ I need to leave this fucking apartment.

I grab the worn blade from its home in the couch and slide it, slowly, into my holster, which is hidden in the only convenient place on my body – right below my bra. I grab a shirt from my bag and warily slide it over my undershirt. I haven't taken off my jeans and don't plan on taking them off, so I stand up off the Plaid Puffball and take my bookbag out from under it.

And off to school I go.

* * *

I don't really know anyone at school. Honestly, I'm not interested in making any friends, so I haven't created any bonds. It's not like I need anyone: group projects are optional, and you can go off campus at lunchtime.

Yeah, yeah. I sound like a self-pitying emo kid.

But that's just how I roll.

I don't need anyone.

* * *

I know I'll get into West-Carr someday – I just need a miracle to happen.

Ha. A miracle.

Money. Class within my family - hell, I'll need a sex change while I'm at it.

That'll happen. Definitely.


	2. Chapter 2: Cafe Afternoons

Saturday.

The alarm stationed at the head of the Plaid Puffball erupts into harsh buzzes. _Fuck,_ I keep forgetting to turn the damn thing off – and Mother Dearest's 'Friday Night Fun Companions' hate the noise. They get violent.

I sigh and slam my hand down on the rapidly blinking _snooze_ button. Great. I've just lost three – maybe four – hours of my weekend sleep. Well, at least I can take advantage of that time to….

To…

Do homework.

And then I'll have to clock into work for the remainder of the day.

Wonderful.

* * *

"Fowty-hundwed bottles of beew on da wall, fowty hundwed beews, you take one off and paff it awound, den tirty-tree beews are leff!"

A child's maddeningly skewed perspective on the "beer song" has left a headache pounding in my skull for the last hour. She's been sitting in the booth closest to the front counter for the whole afternoon, singing in her high-pitched, squealy, lispy toddler voice.

"Twenny-ate boddles of beew on da wall, twenny-ate boddles of beew, you take one off and paff it awuond, den eighty-tree beews aw leff!"

Oh, my god. I reach behind me and turn on the coffee grinder, just to drown out her voice. The loud whirring noise accompanies the smell of fresh-ground java, though the grinder's empty. Ah. Pure bliss.

"Max?"

Great. It's Dylan. He's a West-Carr boy who's too good to be true. And he works. With me. In a lowly coffee shop. And… he's kind of above me. Like, he could fire me, for breaking the coffee grinder, which isn't supposed to run without coffee in it.

Oh. I guess someone would realize I was doing that eventually. "Oh, um, hey. Yeah, I know it looks like… um… yes. I am grinding coffee."

"But I thought I ground it all this morning…?"

"Yeah, um, you did. I was just…"

An amused expression settles on his face. "You were running it. To drown out the noise of children?" He drops his voice here, staring at the annoying, blond-haired devil-child past the counter.

Almost immediately, his expression drops, replaced by an ugly sneer as he sees the boy accompanying devil-child. The company has his back to me; his hair is stuffed in a black hat, and he's typing away at approximately one-hundred words per minute on a computer. He's hunched in a position that will ensure a humpback by age twenty.

The devil-child glances at our picture-menu that hangs on the walls. Oh, no. Then she pauses in her song.

"Fag! Fag! I wan' beer!" she says to her – babysitter, probably – and points to the foamy iced tea illustration. "Just like daddy!"

Okay, so up to this point, two things have mystified me. One; how could a child keep singing like that for an hour without giving up? (The beer song has enraptured all children, I suppose.) Two; what kind of five-year-old (or so) calls their babysitter a fag? And, in addition to that, wants beer?

As I'm puzzling over these two occurrences, the babysitter dude slams his computer shut. The noise pulls me from my revere and I start eavesdropping on the two again.

"No," he says in an angry voice. "No beer."

And then, in a quieter voice: "Promise me you'll never be like your father."

The scared-looking little girl nods at his serious adult-voice.

He looks relieved. "Come here, Angel," he says, turning in the chair to face the little girl. She gets up and throws herself into his lap, cooing. He wraps his arms around her and sways in the chair, hugging her like a life rope.

God, I wish I'd had a parental figure in my life. At least this little girl has a… somebody. They don't look related. But they're close. And he's obviously somebody to her.

And they seem to have the same father-situation… as I do. I mean, not to make assumptions, but…

Somebody taps me on the shoulder. Dylan.

"You need to get back to work," he says angrily.

And so I do, dutifully serving out a child-size lemonade when the little devil-child comes up to the counter, holding a handful of crumpled dollar bills. She looks proud. "I can order all by myself!" she squeals.

I nod as I fix the lemonade and give her the change. As she heads back to the table where her acquaintance sits, I can tell that he wears the same proud expression as she does.

I find myself staring at the back of his head too long, until my cheeks feel warm. Shaking the strange feeling from my face, I sit down on the floor behind the counter and start organizing the cups by size until I feel normal again.

* * *

They're in the café again on Monday. It's slow on Mondays (especially holiday Mondays) – they're the only ones here as of now. The little girl colours absently in a colouring book and the boy is once again glued to his computer.

"You wanna know what Miss Maw-teen-iz told me today?" the little girl says out of nowhere. I stop squeezing lemons for a minute, nosily listening to their exchange.

"What, Angel?" says the boy, ungluing himself from the computer screen to ruffle the girl's hair. "What did Mrs. Magical Martinez tell you?" He says this jokingly; but his immediate attention to the girl is just… sweet.

"Miss Mawteeniz said dat mommies and daddies and broddas and sistas are for lovin' little girls like me," she says, leaning over the table to be closer to him. "Why does my daddy not love me? And why don' I have a sissie? Or a mommy?"

The boy thinks for a little bit, swirling his coffee – black, strong brew (I fixed it for him about an hour ago) – and then, tentatively, starts talking.

"Some people don't have mothers and sisters," he says, looking sort of cornered. However, the little girl seems to accept his words without confusion.

"And daddy?"

"Well… Dad's just a… not-nice person."

"But do I get enouf love wifout him?"

The boy laughs. "Sure you do. See, I'm your favorite brother, right?"

 _Oh._ _Brother!_ Duh. Hey, they didn't look related. Don't blame me!

The girl giggles, wrapping her arms around him. Once again, a pang of jealousy – at the close gestures between family – cuts through me. "So you love me enouf for the both of you?"

"Yep," he says, suddenly scratching at his neck suspiciously. He whips his head around a few times, and I guiltily go back to squeezing the lemons; hissing as my chewed-down fingernails and self-inflicted hangnails come in contact with the juice.

The café is silent for a few minutes, save for soft classical music playing in the background. If Dylan wasn't here, it would be classic rock, or maybe alt, but _anything_ other than fucking elevator music.

"Angel, you do realise that tomorrow I have to go back to school until Friday, right?"

The girl – now dubbed Angel – nods and sticks out her lip. "I hate that. I wish I could keep you _foweva._ "

"Hate's a strong word, Angel," the boy says knowingly, taking a sip of coffee.

And everything about that is true.


	3. Chapter 3: A Stray Coffee Bean

The week passes by in a blur, and I find myself disgustingly eager for Saturday – the only day that the brother and sister are at the coffee shop, not counting holidays.

I pull myself out of bed and wish I didn't have to get up at 5:30.

Early this week, Dylan had asked me to cover his morning shift – and that included opening, which I hate. Mostly because I despise working the bookstore, which is sort of jointed to the café. Let's just say I was the first of the employees – in all ten years of the café's life – to start a life-size domino game with the bookshelves. What? I was only trying to re-shelve some… uh… high-up books. And there wasn't a ladder.

The café's a five-minute walk from my apartment – it's in a better part of town, and I feel mch safer there. I walk around to the back and unlock it, opening the squeaky door and cringing at the noise.

I flip on the lights, start the enormous coffee-maker, and check the bathrooms. After grinding another day's worth of beans, I walk over to the bookstore… grudgingly.

* * *

The place is a mess, and I'm still organizing things when 7 comes around. Sighing, I head back to the front counter and grab the keys. All lights? Check. Tables clean? Check. Tip container lid ajar? Check. Music? Check.

I unlock the doors and greet the trickle of Saturday-morning usuals – they're the people who come every weekend as though brought by an unknown force. I don't really understand them.

Grabbing the daily specials board, I consult our weekly deals book until I find some appropriate meals. I chalk down a few specials and set it outside, looking down the sidewalks and streets as I do.

I don't see Little Girl and Brother.

As I fix the usuals' usuals, (an overly fancy coffee I'd rather not go into details about, a green tea, and a few odd juices) a gnawing feeling starts to fill up the pit of my stomach, like a painful, dull hunger. It doesn't go away, and I slowly start to wonder if I should take some medication.

I decide against it and instead start shuffling around the coffee bags behind the counter until their labels are in spectrum order. It makes me feel… better, to see the colors ranging from red to black on the fading butchers' block counter. When I'm done with that, I check around the café and then move on to the drink station – restocking the straw-and-stirrers organizer and placing new cardboard sleeves in their bin. I even open a new package of lids and set those out.

Ugh, something's wrong with me. Usually, in this situation, I'd be slacking off. But right now, I've apparently got nothing more to do than be a neat freak.

Stuck in a café for ten hours.

With a fuckin' bad stomachache… that won't go away.

* * *

My stomachache resides at 10:30, right when Little Girl & Co make their way into the café.

Is it a coincidence? Or was I… anxiously waiting for their return?

 _No._ It wasn't like that _at all_ , I try to convince myself. _No… I was just dreading their annoying appearance._ That proves to be a better argument to myself, and I do my best to ignore them. That doesn't work for long, though, because the little girl – Angel – takes it upon herself to start whining about food. The food in the café's pastry display, to be exact.

"I wanna cupcake! Pleeeeeese Fag!"

"Angel," her brother groans.

"Miss Valerie di'nt let me have candy _aw week._ She's mean. Pleeeeeeease?"

"Hmm." The boy taps his chin. "Will you be quiet if I get you… a cupcake?"

"Cupcake!" The word sends her into a volley of squealing.

"Shh," he says, and she nods sincerely, zipping her mouth with her chubby pointer finger. The brother scrapes his chair back –

Ah, shit. I quickly look for a guise of productivity and select the coffee grinder. I snatch the cord and plug it into the wall, pouring a small amount of beans into. But I forget to put the lid on…

… fuck.

Someone clears their throat from behind me just as the coffee beans go flying. Cursing, I unplug the godawful machine and try to compose myself. There's a loud clattering as the beans hit the floor around me.

 _Wonderful,_ just _wonderful._

"Hello," I say, turning around and trying to hide my embarrassment.

"I'd like a pastry?" His voice is an amused sort of question.

"Two dollars," I say, taking his money. "For here or to go?"

"For here," he answers. He picks one out.

"Double chocolate chip cupcake," I say. "My favorite."

I put it on a plate; he looks up and we make eye contact for the first time.

His eyes are hidden behind wild black hair that puts manga boys to shame; and most of that is hidden by a hat – but I can tell that they're pure black; no division between the pupil and the iris.

I feel something in the air when our eyes connect.

I blink; breaking the connection. He smiles. Reaches over and takes something from my hair - which is in a ratsnest. I suddenly feel self-conscious as he extracts the object from my tangles.

"Coffee bean," he says with a small smile. He sets it on the counter.

And then he leaves to go back to his sister.

I stare at the coffee bean for a second, as if in a trance. _How'd it get in my hair?_

Oh. Right. The coffee grinder.

Shaking myself slightly, I pick up the bean and throw it into the garbage.

* * *

 **Sorry about the filler. The academy part of the book will pick up in the next chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4: A Lifechanging Package

_I receive it at precisely 4:39, Sunday afternoon._ Easily my least favorite time of the week – slow, boring Sunday afternoons are the worst; I hate them with all my guts.

I'm lounging on the Puffball, reading a crappy thrift-store novel and listening to my dumpster-dive radio quietly when the doorbell rings. I have no desire to get up and answer it; to greet god-knows-who that stands behind it. So I continue to lie on the couch and read.

"Package for Maximum Ride!" calls a female voice. I pause in my reading, then sit bolt upright. _Package for me?_ What kind of package? Did my 'mother' use my name for her latest drug shipment? Did I order something and forget? Probably not.

I stretch and walk over to the door. The lady behind it looks like a genuine mail-person, so I sign the computer thingy without complaint. She produces a medium-size package from her bag – about the size of a big package of letter paper. My never-unleashed child instincts kick it, and I suddenly can't wait to open it.

"Have a good day!" the mail-woman calls from down the hall.

"You too!" I say. But I don't shut the door; instead, I slip on my Converse and decide that I'm going to open the package at the park; instead of in this dirty hellhole.

Within a few minutes, I arrive at the park, eager to open the package. I decide to scale a tree and settle down before using my keys to savagely tear open the tape. And into my lap falls…

Holy fuck… a stack of one-hundreds, rubber-banded together. I look around nervously before taking off the rubber band.

* * *

Once in fifth grade, I did a math project on how much money was in a one-inch stack of 100-dollar bills. I did it by finding how thick a dollar bill was and dividing it by some crap. Well, anyways, it was decided that approximately $23,000 could be squished into one inch.

There's three inches here.

And there's more stacks in the box.

I put the box back down onto my lap and pinch myself. Then, for good measure, I scrape my fingernails across my arm. I'm definitely awake.

I hold random bills up into the sun; they're all real. Suspicion is overpowering my joy, though, so I rifle through the box until I find what I'm looking for: an explanation in the form of… an envelope. A pink, perfume-y envelope.

I frown and rip it open. Out tumbles several sheets of worn pink stationary, covered on every inch by flowy cursive, and a legal-looking document.

I struggle through the cursive, then through the legal document.

I come up with one thing:

This is my inheritance, from my dying long-lost Aunt Mildred.

And it's perfectly legal.

* * *

Questions run through my brain like Nascar drivers: fast and dangerous. _How did this happen? Why did so much money just get_ mailed _to me? Why wasn't there, like, a lawyer? How much money? Why did I never meet my 'aunt'?_

 ** _What am I going to do with this?_**

And the only answer I really have is that I'm going to go to West-Carr.

I'm going to _go_ to that motherfucking school and be the first person in my entire family to graduate from _high school._ A real high-school, not a fucking ghetto shit school like I'm going to now.

But first… I've gotta turn into a guy.

Hm. This could be a problem.

* * *

This is going to be _so_ disturbing. But, y'know what?

I'd do anything to get into a good school. (I actually have dreams and aspirations.) I guess I'd even disguise myself.

Which I will.

As soon as I get a bank account… bleh.

* * *

Getting a bank account proves to be one of the most boring things I've ever done in my life. So does qualifying for a credit card, which takes nearly two weeks. But I finally get shit done. I'm ready for the most interesting thing that will ever happen in my life.

I'm ready to disguise myself.

* * *

"You're sure about this?" The hairstylist holds up a lock of my butt-length hair. I nod and he raises his scissors.

"Absolutely sure?"

"Look, dude. I'm sure."

I stare into the mirror and watch as my hair disappears onto the floor, hitting it with a loud _thump_ as each banded-off lock falls. I look again at the picture taped beside my reflection – a slightly long guy 'do…

"You sure?" the stylist teases. I roll my eyes at him and study my features.

I'm sure my nose is fine, guywise. My lips, definitely – I've never really had very girly lips. And my boobs should be fine if I can buy one of those high-tech boob wrap cross-dresser thingies. My lack of certain male features will have to do, though.

This is all going way too fast.

 _Wayyyy too fast._

* * *

 **I hate this chapter, it was too short where I wanted to cut it off, but now It seems like too much info. And too rushed.**

 **Also today I had to say something to a guy that I'd never thought I would say! 'I'm 12'!**

 **(Note: this isn't important, you can skip.)**

 **so, i was at a skate rink with my sister, but it was really crowded because of all of the summer camp kids, so i didn't want to skate. instead, i sat at a table.**

 **random teenager (a counselor for a camp):** do you mind if i sit here?

 **me:** … no. (there was no where else to sit because of all the people and i didn't want to be rude.)

 **a few minutes later:**

 **teenager:** i'm dan, what's your name?

 **me:** i'm lauren.

 **dan:** are you just sitting here and, like, watching people skate, or what? why aren't you skating?

 **me:** well my sister's here and i came here with her. i just didn't feel like skating it's too crowded.

 **dan:** oh god it's boring as shit to sit here for like three hours. i'm a volunteer with the summer camp and i have to watch the kids **.**

 **me:** …yeah.

 **dan:** so how old are you?

 **me:** i'm 12.

 **dan:** no fucking way, are you shitting me?

 **me:** no, i'm 12.

 **dan:** dammit. i'm 16.

 **dan:** *mutters* way too old for you. fuck. shit. Sorry.

 **wHAT tHE hELL dAN. IM SORRY. BUT WHAT THE HELL.**


	5. Chapter 5: Dylan

Guess what, people?

I didn't think this all through. I _have a freaking job,_ _I have a freakin' guy haircut_ and _people at the café might recognize me… when I get into West-Carr? If I do?_

Like… Dylan?

Panicking, I grab a hat from my bag and stuff the small amount of hair I have left into it. Man, I need a wig. Or something. But no one can know that I cut my hair. No one can know about my… plan…

* * *

The brother and sister are having a heated mini-food fight as I walk in the door. They're tossing bits of salad and such on to each-others' plates… and, in mostly Angel's case, onto the floor. I glare at them as I walk by to straighten up some of the tables; Angel sticks out her tongue at me.

"Why you so meeeeeeeean?" She draws out the last syllable and I cringe at her high-pitched voice.

"I'm not mean, I just know that I'll have to clean that mess up later… _while being paid under minimum wage,_ " I snap, directing the last part to her brother – because it's true. His eyes widen and he apologizes, immediately bending down out of his seat to pick up the crumbs from the floor.

Idiots. What, did they just think that the food would magically clean itself up? Did they forget there would be a waitress/food dude who would have to come scrape their shit from the floor?

I guess I'm just in a terrible mood right now… probably because of my shitty lack of a think-through before I went rushing into a full-on sex change, minus surgery…

I should probably order some colour-contacts, just to be safe.

"What's Minnie-mum way?" I hear Angel ask her brother as I walk away.

* * *

"You're acting jumpy today, Maxie," Dylan says as I grind ice for a frappuccino. I glare at him; he's right – because of my plan, I've been jumpy and on edge my whole shift, especially around him. "You know, you have a few shifts in comp time. You could take a weekend off, maybe a vacation."

He leans back against the register counter; I consider his offer. Yeah, he might seem to be kind of young to be my boss, but he's technically nineteen, completing his last year of high school because of some birth dateline shit, where he was born too close to the beginning of the school year or something. I don't know the exact information, but he's assured me that he _hasn't failed a grade, Max!,_ so many times that it annoys me.

He glances out at the tables; I follow his gaze and see none other than Brother and Sister – who seem to have no life outside of the tiny café. I mean, wouldn't a normal kid have playdates? A teenage guy would have friends?

"You're going to start _now_ ," Dylan decides. "You're going on forced-paid vacation for the next two weeks. And I'm going to treat you to a coffee."

I groan at the new development. I know favors from Dylan always turn out badly, but I let him fix my favorite – an all-black coffee with exactly one tablespoon of sugar – watching carefully as he slips on the sleeve and snaps the coffee lid on. He grabs my hand and leads me over to the table farthest from Brother and Sister.

Okay, let me get something straight: I _hate_ it when authors romanticize hand-holding. To be honest, holding onto a boy's hand is like holding onto the sandpaper part of an automatic handheld sander, the kind with a little belt on it. I don't know if all guys are like that, or if some just have the good grace to use lotion, but _ugh._ Their hands are all nasty and scaly and dry. _My_ hands don't feel like that, right? _RIGHT!?_

"Uh, Max," says Dylan, interrupting my thought train. "Do you know what you're doing this winter break?"

I grab a napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table and start shredding it – a good output for my nervous energy. "Nothing, really," I say.

He laughs. "That's the answer every time I ask you that question."

It's saddeningly true: "Nothing, really" is my default answer for what I'm doing on spring break, summer break, Thanksgiving break, winter break, and any days in-between. Dylan's been asking me adamantly ever since I met him.

He looks down at the napkin, glances over his shoulder, then lunges out and grabs my hands in his. I grit my teeth but let his belt-sander hands hold mine… and know that if anything happens, it could be particularly dangerous to my job position.

"Look, Max," he says softly. "I know I'm not allowed to know what's going on at home, you've made that pretty clear… but if anything happens to you, _anywhere,_ you can tell me about it."

I feel my eyes start to sting; I don't want to look up into his ocean-blue irises, but something compels me to… I feel betrayed; possessed even.

Because it can't be of my own free will as I watch him lean closer… and closer… and put those annoying blocks of sandpaper on the side of my face…

And kiss me, like some lovesick idiot.

And I let it happen.

I dimly hear little Angel clapping happily and squealing, "Kissy!" as Dylan pulls apart from me. I turn around and glare at her full-on, unleashing the Maximum Glare. It can make grown men break down into tears… let's say it definitely affected Angel.

I face Dylan again and say, "Thanks for the coffee."

He smiles and I stand up. I can feel burning eyes on the back of my grey hoodie. I resist the temptation to slide my middle finger behind my back; instead, I try hard to go about my regular 'leaving work' routine without thinking about what just happened.

* * *

 **Does anyone else agree with me on the hand-holding things? Look, guy-friends,** ** _you need some fucking lotion…_** **I recommend Gold-Bond; it's likely in one of the bathroom aisles at your local supermarket.**

 **edit: it kills me to know that the** ** _maximum ride_** **fandom is dying out, quick publish another mr book, jp!**


End file.
